Birth
by MartyrsMistress
Summary: Reign AU/Oneshot I had all and then most of you Some and now none of you Take me back to the night we met


"Push, your Majesty! Push!" the midwife yelled from in between her Queen's legs. The Queen of Scotland and France cried out, pushing as hard as she could, feeling the child bare down from inside of her. She screamed out, her body seizing up as she forced the child within her out. Her hands clamped down onto Kenna and Greer's hands, a third cry slipping past her lips.

"I know," Lola cooed, running a cold, wet cloth onto her brow. "I know," she said again. "but you have to keep going, Mary. You're almost there!" she begged. Mary clenched her teeth and pushed as hard as she could, using every last bit of strength she had to get her child out of her. The pain was unbearable. She thought it was going to kill her, but suddenly, it was all over.

The cries of a child suddenly echoed throughout the room, forcing air out of the women's lungs as they sighed in satisfaction at the pleasant sound of the offspring of the King and Queen let out healthy, strong cries.

Mary panted for air, her body relaxing into the pillows as she was lay back by the nurses, midwives and her ladies. Gulping, she struggled to find her voice, but managed to speak, her throat raw from hours upon hours of screaming.

"Is it a son?" she asked, her voice trembling from exhaustion and pain.

Before the midwife holding the screaming babe could answer, the door slammed open and the King of France and Scotland barged his way into the room, making his way to his Queen's bedside, bringing her form into a tight embrace.

"Mary," he breathed. Even now, she felt shivers up her spine at the sound of her name falling from his lips. He was the only one to say her name like that. "Thank god you're alright." he breathed. Mary smiled from the crook of his neck as he let her go, laying her back against the bed sheets.

"Your Majesty," the midwife who grabbed the baby approached Francis as he stood. Mary began to get nervous as she saw the nerves upon the midwife's face. She gulped audibly, her body starting to tremble as she approached her husband with their child. Don't say it, Mary thought, closing her eyes. Please don't say it.

"Your Majesty," the midwife said again, extending out the bundle towards it's father. "A healthy daughter."

The King and Queen of France and Scotland held two very different reactions to the news of a daughter.

The King of France's smile could rival the brightness of the sun. He smiled in the way his wife loved, the one that lit up his expression and his beautiful blue eyes. He cooed at his newborn daughter, that tiny new Princess, taking her into his arms. He lay her head upon his chest, as if trying to sync their heartbeats together, stroked the long, wet and dark tendrils of hair from her face, whispering to his newborn daughter in his mother tongue, just holding her. The child's cries quieted somewhat, although she whimpered for the arms of her mother, the only person she had known for the last three seasons.

The Queen of Scotland, on the other hand, sagged into the bed. Her head was turned in the opposite direction to the beautiful scene of father meeting daughter for the first time. It was like she couldn't even look at that tiny being whom she had grown for the last three seasons. Her expression was crestfallen, almost heartbroken, dwelling on the fact that she hadn't born Francis and their countries the son they needed, the heir they desperately necessitated. No, she had born a useless daughter, one who would be at a disadvantage as she grew, her voice never listened to simply because of her gender. Although the child would be her heir for Scotland so long as she remained son-less, the child couldn't rule in France, and thus, they would be continuing their pressure for a Dauphin. That pressure had started on the day she wed their then heir, and only grew then their new King had claimed Lola's ten month old son Jean Philippe. Mary could already feel their disappointment, their despondency for a simple girl for the marriage market, not a King for the throne. She had let down not just France, but Scotland, too. Mary only prayed that she could stand their disappointed looks and judgemental glances for another few months until -god forbid, she begged- she fell pregnant again. If it could even happen again.

"Mary," Francis came closer to her, smiling that bright smile that she hated herself for being so glum in a moment that clearly meant so much to him. The Queen looked up at her King. She hated herself for not baring him a son, and even further for the feeling she felt towards that little being he obviously loved so much already, wanting to trade their daughter for a son who she may never have. "Look at her," he said, his voice quiet, coming in close. "look at our daughter." Mary glanced at the wailing, flailing red little thing in his arms for a moment, before glancing away.

Francis sensed her uneasiness, and ordered the midwives and nurses and servants out of the room. They left with curtsies and statements that "they would return momentarily to finish tending to her Grace." before the aforementioned Queen, King and new Princess were alone.

"Mary, what is it? What's wrong?" Francis asked, sitting down at the edge of the bed, not relinquishing his hold upon his newborn daughter, not letting his grip loosen for even a second.

"Nothing," Mary mumbled, looking down at the blood soaked coverlet and blankets she lay upon and gown she wore, the maids not yet cleaned their mistress' and Queen's blood from her body and bed.

"Mary," Francis adjusted his arms so to hold his new Princess in one whilst extend the other out to his wife, his fingers finding themselves underneath her chin so to raise it and look into her exhausted, sad eyes. "Don't do this. I'm here for you, tell me what troubles you."

She sighed. There was no point fighting with him, nor pretending otherwise. Unable to move, to adjust herself, because of the blood she could still feel oozing out of her and the incredible pain she still felt, Mary started to talk.

"I just-" she trailed. "I wanted so much to give you a son, an heir to secure our countries." she sniffled. "You've recovered from that horrid sickness and I from my assault, I just wanted to give you an heir." Mary's chin lowered again. "But all I could give was a daughter." she sniffled.

Francis sighed, in both compassion and understanding. He knew how much the courts' pressure on her to birth him an heir and them a future King could pile up upon her, but they had a child. A healthy daughter, why couldn't they have a healthy son in the future?

"My love," he started. "an heir doesn't matter to me now. All that matters are you and our child." Mary looked up uncertainly. "We are young yet, and we have a healthy child. Who's to say we don't have a dozen sons in the future?" he asked, smiling a small smile. Mary reluctantly returned a half-attempted return.

"I suppose." she sighed.

Francis frowned, leaning over towards her.

"What are you-" Mary was cut off to the sudden arrival of her child in her arms. She noted that the little girls' whimpers completley ceased the moment she was in her mothers' arms. The child burrowed into her mothers' embrace, silent and serene and content.

"See, look at that," Francis' voice was soft. "She loves her mother already, she will be strong, just like her mother." Mary looked from the newborn to her husband. "We will have a son, sons, who will take our thrones when we are gone from this world, boys to raise and who will love us as much as we, them." he affirmed. "And if we do not-" Mary let out a whimper. "then my throne will fall to Charles and yours will go to our darling baby girl. She will be a magnificent Queen if given the chance, you have proven a woman's rule in her own right can be successful and prosperous, who's to say hers won't be?" he asked. Mary sighed, swallowing thickly.

"We have a healthy daughter, Mary. That means we can have -and will have- a healthy son. In time." Mary looked up at her husband. "You have to trust me, I am not your great uncle." he affirmed. Henry VIII was a tyrant and resented his wives when they bore him daughters, Francis wasn't like that. He was good and perfect. He wasn't like him.

"I know," Mary reached out and took one of his hands. "I just worry that-"

"You've born me a daughter, your position is secure. We will have a son, God willing. May we celebrate our Princess' arrival, now?" he asked.

Mary nodded. "What will we name her?" Mary's voice was quiet from exhaustion from the almost two days of labor and the pain she still felt, and the uncertainty she always would feel until she bore Francis a son.

Francis smiled. That beautiful, bright smile that could put the sun to shame and put all her worries to rest.

"We shall call her Anne. Princess Anne Marie de Stuart-Valois-Anguleme."


End file.
